


Unveil Me

by My_Bated_Breath



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: 10 years after the 94 year war, Alternate Universe, Ba Sing Se, F/M, IDENTITY SHENANIGANS, Identity Angst, Love Square inspired by Miraculous Ladybug, On Hiatus, Politics, Zutara Week 2020, Zutara a la Love Square, but also fluff, by night they're vigilantes, can read as a oneshot for now, in the daytime they're ambassadors, you don't need to know Miraculous Ladybug to understand this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:21:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25698733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Bated_Breath/pseuds/My_Bated_Breath
Summary: “Let’s be spirits to everyone but each other.”.Year after year, they find each other back in Ba Sing Se.
Relationships: Blue Spirit/Katara, Blue Spirit/Painted Lady, Katara/Zuko (Avatar), painted lady/zuko
Comments: 37
Kudos: 78





	Unveil Me

**Author's Note:**

> This can be considered a oneshot until I one day muster the will to return it - everything is outlined, now it all depends on when I'm prepared to write this. And although it's supposed to be a multichap fic, I think this works alright enough as a standalone :)
> 
> Enjoy!

It was a quiet night in Ba Sing Se.

A rush of wind swept past the vacant streets, rattling loose tiles on the rooftops and rusted chimes hanging from their edges. Tattered drapes flapped over unattended stalls, wooden tables empty of goods and wares. The lantern posts were unlit, and even if they were still burning there would be no silhouettes ensconced underneath them. Under the shroud of nighttime, those who did not know where to look would only see a city full of ghosts.

Yet the Painted Lady never felt more alive.

Her dress billowed behind her as she glided past a line of crowded apartments and shops. She had nothing but the moon and her senses to guide her through the Lower Ring, but it was enough. With silver light brushing her skin and thrumming in her veins she could sift through the sleeping and the sleepless to find the place she needed to be.

Some days she leaned against rooftops, anticipating when thieves or killers would dart into a seemingly unwatched alley. On others, she would search for the source of a stifled sob and find a victim to seek justice for.

Today was neither occurrence. 

The Painted Lady stopped upon reaching her destination — a rickety wooden house, squeezed between two larger buildings, with walls on the verge of falling apart and a door that was barely hanging onto the frame. However, that by itself was not an unusual sight. No, poverty in the Lower Ring was not uncommon at all.

What was different was the incense burning in front of the doorsteps and the lily petals scattered around the sticks. A makeshift altar, the Painted Lady realized, for the smoke to carry a prayer to the ancestors watching the earth from the heavens. Her eyebrow creased as she surveyed the lilies — flowers which, in the Earth Kingdom, signified innocence and death.

Innocence and death. Innocence and _death_. She steeled herself. Death was inevitable, yes, but it could be delayed.

Pushing away any lingering reservations, the Painted Lady gave the door a slight push and entered. Her steps were soft as she padded past the entrance, yet her heart pounded so loudly that she had to wonder if the house occupants would wake upon hearing it.

She shook her head at the thought. There was no reason to be afraid of being caught — the Painted Lady was known to be a guardian and healer of the innocent. If anything, they should be grateful to see her. Nevertheless, it came as no small relief to her when no one so much as stirred.

With an audible exhale, she released the stiffness wound tight in her muscles.

But she let her guard down too soon. In that instant between tension and release, a bruising grip seized her wrists and shoved her out the door. The Painted Lady opened her mouth — to demand, to scream, she didn’t know — but before she could say anything her attacker had her pinned against the side of the house. The wood groaned, loud and noisy enough to cover up her small hiss.

She pulled on her arms as hard as she could, but the hold she was in was too strong. She squirmed and thrashed but to no avail, her legs kicking out to be met by nothing but air.

How could so much go wrong in so little time? The Painted Lady was not supposed to be easy to spot, much less to catch. She despaired.

“Hey! Let go!”

And just like that the hand holding her slackened immediately, and if she wasn’t so high on adrenaline she might have had the presence of mind to be surprised. Still, as it was, all she knew was that the Painted Lady had someone to drown.

Hand flying to the cork of her flask, she spun around, arms already held in a bending stance as her element answered her call. “Whoever you think you are-”

A grinning blue demon stared back at her. Water splashed to the ground, useless.

After all, there was only one person skilled enough to catch the Painted Lady.

She remembered that all too well — sneaking in the dark with dampened steps on wood, exhilaration crumpling into terror when she was caught, and the moment they saw each other and were too shocked to do anything but let go.

That was two years ago. Two years of late hours scaling the walls of Ba Sing Se, of moonlit nights balanced on roofs and lamp posts, of fighting together and saving each other. And here they were, meeting each other again in the same way it all began.

She blinked. He was still there. Of course he was still there; there was no way someone standing in such a rigid stance and hovering with such an air of anticipation could simply disappear. But she couldn’t do anything but stare, helpless, sucked in by the black holes of his mask’s pointed eyes.

When he left her nine months ago, a part of her left with him. That must be why this felt so much like a dream — because even though she knew the way he held himself with such sharpness and fluidity, even though it was his silhouette she saw whenever she closed her eyes, even though his promises to return once the panda-lilies bloomed echoed on and on — it had become all but a dream in her mind.

The moonlight shifted, casting colors — his blue and white mask, her red and brown skin — into stark contrast. For a moment, stretched long and wide, time stood still. They stood still.

She caved in first.

“Blue Spirit.”

A pause. Then, a return.

“Painted Lady.”

He spoke so quietly that the air swallowed his words, yet she could hear nothing else. She could hear him, yes, she could see him too but she didn’t know how to feel, not until the corner of her lips were turning upward until she was all but beaming, all but throwing her arms around him.

To his credit, the Blue Spirit didn’t stumble back, though he did emit a small “mph!” that she found far too endearing. But the Painted Lady didn’t want to dwell on the butterflies in her stomach or the thudding in her chest, so she looked up and took him in, tracing the familiar outline of white paint curving over the blue of his mask.

There was so much she wanted to say, carefree jokes and heartfelt confessions she had filed away to herself, waiting for the moment they were reunited to speak them into existence. But those had been conversations shared with an imaginary companion, and he was too overwhelmingly _here_ right now for her to reveal herself to him.

“Do we always have to meet this way?” She asked cheekily instead.

The Blue Spirit scoffed, and his voice came out muffled when he replied. “I thought you were breaking in.”

“Oh, give me a break. Who else do you know who wears this much red?”

“You’d be surprised.”

Was there ever a time when he wasn’t so dry or short? Well, there _was_ a time when he didn’t speak at all, and she liked the sound of his voice too much to ask for anything else. She tightened her arms around him and heard his breath hitch.

“Ouch.”

“You have a high pain tolerance. You can take it.”

Still, the longer she held him the harder it would be to let go. So for just one moment, she breathed him in, feeling the firmness of his muscles under his clothes, the warmth sparking from where his hands rested on her back. Then she forced her arms to fall, for her legs to move back.

The world came back into perspective. They were in the dirty, overcrowded streets of the Lower Ring. She was here for a reason and he was too; she could see it in the pouch he was carrying in his hand, the contents of which chimed together.

“So, what are you doing here?”

The incense wafted in the air between them. The lily petals dried ever so slowly on the ground. 

“One of the people living there is dying.”

The Blue Spirit nodded, unsurprised. He too had smelt the smoke and seen the flowers. The Painted Lady hesitated. The atmosphere was already so different from what it had been just a few minutes ago, and she couldn’t tell whether it was because they had grown too far apart or if it was because they were falling back into a long-forgotten routine. Either way, it didn’t matter. They had far graver concerns to worry about.

Steeling her nerves and firmly ignoring the Blue Spirit’s presence behind her, the Painted Lady pushed the door open and entered the house. For a few seconds, she couldn’t see anything, her eyes at first unadjusted to the darkness inside, but a few blinks later she could make out two silhouettes slumped over a threadbare mattress, a smaller figure lying on top of it. A mother and father, so exhausted from their worry that they collapsed next to their bedridden son.

The Painted Lady made her way to the other side of the bed, the Blue Spirit following close behind. Now that she was closer, she could hear the little boy’s labored breathing, shaky and uneven as it wisped through his lips. With nearly mechanical motions she drew water from her flask and let it coat around her fingers like a glove. Her hands hovered as they moved over the length of his body, searching for a wound, a disease.

As she passed over the boy’s torso, she detected the slightest twinge. Not a wound, but a strain. An infection that had twisted the chi paths running from his throat to his stomach, tainting both his body and energy with blemishes. The water would have to make physical contact to be able to heal anything.

As if he read her thoughts, the Blue Spirit began easing the boy out of the loose rags he was wearing, his movements gentle and attentive. Everything had been prepared for her. She gave herself a moment of reprieve to collect herself.

The moment passed. Breathing out slowly, the Painted Lady began, letting the water pool out and sink into the boy’s skin.

Conceptually, healing infections was a little like doing laundry. Except instead of washing dirt out from clothing, she was washing away impurities buried deep within the bloodstreams and muscle tissue. But she had to reach far with her water before the body could be cleansed from it, so she guided it to sweep from side to side, pushing and pulling like the rising and receding tide just as the waterbenders she had studied in the past were taught — Yin and Yang, Tui and La. Soon enough, she could feel the knots in the boy’s disease soak and loosen until they fell away altogether.

Sweat was beading down her forehead by the time she released the water, allowing the boy’s dehydrated body to reabsorb it. Already she could hear his breathing ease, steady where it once wavered.

“Incredible.”

She shifted her gaze from one boy to the other. Just as there was a time when she didn’t know the cadence of his voice, there was a time when the Blue Spirit was ageless to her. His silence itself seemed centuries-old, wrought with an untold history she couldn’t even touch. But hearing him right now — so awestruck, so reverent — he sounded so young.

As young as she was.

She let a slip of a smile pass through her lips. “It’s not perfect. It’ll take him a week or two to fully recover.”

“But he will recover. He was dying, and now he’ll live thanks to you.”

She had to bite down the automatic response — that she was only using her gift as Tui and La intended, that she was returning a warrior’s ferocity with a healer’s tenderness — but the unspoken phrases sat heavily on her tongue, leaving a bitter taste.

“Why are you here?”

The question was too sharp, too cutting for a house this fragile. The Painted Lady turned away before she could regret her words. They contained a little truth, after all. Because as happy as she was that the Blue Spirit came back to her, he had been the one to leave her to begin with.

He had been the one to leave her.

“Why am I in this house?” He asked to clarify, and she forced herself not to correct him. The Blue Spirit considered the statement before lifting his hand, the one holding the pouch she saw earlier.

“I found an official, sort of. He said he was just collecting taxes, but-” He shook the pouch lightly and it made the same clanking noise as before, but now she could hear the metallic quality to it, the sound of Earth Kingdom coins, “-clearly, he was taking more than he should have.”

“This family could have used the money for medicine.” She gave the boy a mournful look. “So, did you steal it back or something?”

“A threat was sufficient.”

“Oh.” She said, remembering the dao sheathed behind his back. “Of course. Nobody would dare cross the Blue Spirit.”

Maybe he recognized the spite in her tone or laced even deeper, the hurt. He shifted toward her. “The one they should really be worried about is the Painted Lady.”

“And why is that?”

“She can heal and she can fight. It’s not very easy to take down someone who can mend their own wounds during battle.”

“You’re very practical about this, aren’t you?” She teased, but there was an empty half-heartedness about it. The Blue Spirit noticed.

He shrugged. “Well, there’s one more thing too…” If only she could see his face, to match the softness in his voice to a softness in his eyes. “She stays. She stays and she never leaves the people who need her behind.”

She ached. “But what if the Painted Lady needs someone too?”

“She doesn’t.” He replied immediately, always so confident in his Painted Lady even when she herself was not. His next words were far less certain. “But if she were to miss someone…”

“What?” She cut in, indignant. “Of course I missed you.”

A beat. “You missed me? But weren’t you angry at me just now?”

It was something she would never say out loud — that she was angry because she missed him. So instead she raised her eyebrows, feigning nonchalance.

“Do you want me to be angry with you?” He started sputtering apologies and excuses before she raised a hand to stop him. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“Sorry,” he muttered, thoroughly reprimanded. “And I’m sorry I wasn’t there when — _if_ you needed me.”

He sounded too sincere. A wave of regret washed over her, shame for her previous callousness.

“You told me both times you were going to leave,” she recalled. “And both times, you told me when you were going to come back. I can’t fault you for that.”

Everything would be easier if she could blame him.

“Oh. Okay.” He shifted. “So then,” he started carefully. “Why _were_ you angry?”

For a moment, she mulled over the question. If anyone else asked, she would have to fabricate an answer, preferably one that demonstrated proper humility and contrition. She would have to pretend. And that veil she would have to duck under, the invisible veil that hid her more than her physical one ever could — that was the reason why.

The Painted Lady did not exist for this other her.

For Katara.

“You know… me.” Her feelings were too much of a mess to understand, much less articulate. “You know I’m a waterbender and not just a healer.”

The Blue Spirit cocked his head. “But everyone in Ba Sing Se knows that. Anyone who thinks otherwise is a fool.”

A burst, and the words were flooding out, breaking through. “Well, they’re all fools!” She wrung her hands, face scrunched. “Everyone in Ba Sing Se thinks that the Painted Lady is a spirit. Not a- not a…”

“A what-”

He halted.

So caught up in the moment, she had forgotten they never left the house and that she was no longer speaking at a whisper. From the other side of the bed, the mother shifted, raising her head and blinking the fatigue out from her eyes. But upon seeing the two unexpected guests in her house, her sleepiness dropped out from the tired lines in her face.

“The Painted Lady?” The woman asked, reverent. Her eyes slid over to a wooden mask and she stiffened. “...And the Blue Spirit?” 

Caught, both of them froze — but she was much more used to being seen.

“Yes,” the Painted Lady answered.

The woman gaped numbly before her gaze slid down to her son. Their presence could only mean one thing for a poor family like theirs. Nonetheless, she gasped once she saw the color that had returned to the boy’s face and the painless way in which he slept.

“Jie Song,” she breathed. “He’s-”

“Your son will live,” the Painted Lady said.

The woman’s eyes filled with tears. Then, remembering the source of her miracle, she stared imploringly at the two of them. “Thank you, Painted Lady, Blue Spirit. Please, if there’s anything I can do to repay you…”

“There’s no need to repay anything.” Fabric pressed into her skin — the Blue Spirit nudging the pouch into her hand. “In truth, we are here to return something to you.”

Reaching into the pouch, she took out a few coins and pressed them into the woman’s palm. Her fingers trembled as she closed them over the cool metal.

“Thank you,” she repeated. “Thank you so much.”

The Painted Lady smiled benevolently and gazed down at the little boy one last time.

“Take care of your son.”

Then, the two of them left.

After all, the moon still hung in the sky and the sun had yet to rise.

Even so, as they darted from house to house, returning what had once been stolen, she briefly wondered how their departure must have appeared to the woman. How surreal it must be to fall asleep by your ailing son’s side, only to wake and find two local myths materialized in flesh and blood. How they must look — a woman wearing crimson on her skin, a man wearing a demon’s face — as if they are a visage that cannot be touched. And when the last of their gifts are granted, they simply vanish with the wind.

The Painted Lady and the Blue Spirit did what had to be done, the pouch growing lighter and lighter until it was empty and tossed away. With no money left to give, they slid into a bend in the road, hidden from sight.

Clambering her way up onto a rooftop, with rough tiles digging uncomfortably into her arms and her dress tangled under her foot, the Painted Lady did not feel very _vanished_. The adrenaline that fueled her at the beginning of the night had all but drained away, and as the view of the city unfurled before her, so still it was almost a painting, she was left hollow.

Hollow, and alone.

Beneath her, the Blue Spirit scaled the wall with ease. Then he sat down next to her, his mask turned outward to the array of streets before them. They stayed like that for a while before he spoke.

“You’re not just a spirit.”

She tucked her knees to her chest. “Maybe it would be better if I was.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” He demanded.

“I’m a spirit to everyone here. That’s all they can see — you saw it yourself back there, the way that woman was so reverent, almost worshipping-” She bit her lip, forced herself to laugh even when there was no humor to it. “Look at me, complaining about being worshipped. I’m so ungrateful.”

“You’re not ungrateful.” She arched an eyebrow at that. He ignored her, continuing. “You just want to be more than only the Painted Lady.”

“That’s funny. All I ever wanted to be was the Painted Lady.”

“But at what cost?” he asked as if he understood.

Though, maybe he did — she mentioned that there was a difference between her being a healer and a waterbender enough times for him to figure it out. He was impulsive sometimes, but there were other times when he was unnervingly perceptive.

The Painted Lady always felt most alive at night, with moonlight illuminating the unwalked and unturned stones of the roads. But she could only be alive if she walked on streets empty of all but ghosts. She could only be herself if there was no one else to see her. 

_At what cost?_

She knew the answer.

“It’s lonely.” Then, with a little more bravery. “I’ve been lonely, without you.”

He was repentant. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry? It’s not your fault.”

“I still left you behind.” He stated matter-of-factly. “But…”

She didn’t see it until she felt it. His hand had been inching towards hers, closer and closer when she felt a brush of fabric — his pinkie touching hers. He was real. It resonated like a note — he was real.

And she turned her head away from the Lower Ring back to him, always back to him. His blue mask showed nothing, no hint of expression other than a twisted and cruel smile, but she knew him — she knew he was tender, attentive. Yet at the same time she barely knew him at all because she still had so many questions — how was he looking at her, underneath that mask? What color would his eyes be when they met hers?

“I’m here now.” The contact between their fingers was feather-light. “So-” he swallowed.

“So let’s be spirits to everyone but each other.”

Her chest gave a painful squeeze.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Okay. Let’s be spirits to everyone but each other.”

And before she could second guess herself she grabbed onto his arm and tugged him upward. He fumbled and protested at first, but soon they found themselves running side by side across the rooftops, just like so many times before, the echo of their footsteps so much more sure and graceful than when they first met two years ago. She was quiet and he was quieter, but the sound of memories chimed through her mind, ringing through with the breathiness of his laughter, the rasps in his whispers, the smile she could hear in his voice when he teasingly called her _my lady_. And despite the bracing chill of air rushing past her cheeks, it was this that she felt, this long-forgotten warmth once again blossoming in her chest.

Because the Blue Spirit knew the Painted Lady, and beyond the veil shrouding her face, beyond the red swirls drawn on her features, all the way to where another girl existed, he knew a little bit more. 

Could she do the same? Could she bring the boy behind the mask into being? The desire to know him just as he knew her was too deep, too rich and full for one person to keep tucked away in the folds of their heart.

She chased him. He was ahead of her now, back turned as he balanced his steps against a sloped curve, visible only by the outline of his dark clothing. He was with her in so many ways, yet there could be infinitely more ways in which he was not. Yet the Painted Lady had faith. One day, she was certain, he would turn around and she would see him — the contours of his cheeks, the arch of his brow, the color of his eyes — and she would know him.

One day, she promised herself.

One day.

* * *

On the tenth anniversary of the end of the 94 Year War, the Fire Nation delegation arrived at the Earth Kingdom.

The citizens of Ba Sing Se watched, awed and hesitant, as the procession swept through the streets, sunlight glinting off the gold embroidered into their sleeves. The deep red hues of their robes were a shock separating them from the usual crowd of Earth Kingdom greens and browns, yet perhaps more shockingly, there was no gleaming black armor accompanying the red. No, it was only a handful of servants and Fire Nation diplomats walking onward, along with the palanquin carried at the procession’s head.

A slew of whispers and gawkers had followed them by the time they arrived at the Earth Kingdom Palace. At the grand opening doors, King Kuei waited to receive them, and further within the palace, the Earth Kingdom ministers and Water Tribe delegations waited as well.

Katara was not with the Southern Water Tribe delegation. No, for all the reasons she had to stand among them, she had no power to do so. But she was still there. Because next to King Kuei was the Avatar, and one step behind the Avatar was his chosen companion: Katara of the Southern Water Tribes.

Behind her, she could feel the stares of the Northern Water Tribe delegation piercing her back. No doubt they were full of disdain and suspicion, silently picking apart at the simple style of her hair, the too-short sleeves of her dress. At her bare neck.

Katara resolved to ignore them.

Soon, the Fire Nation procession was at the foot of the palace. One of the delegates stepped forward, bowing as his arms gestured toward the palanquin.

“Presenting Prince Zuko,” he said, voice ringing clearly through the air. “Son of Princess Ursa, brother of Princess Azula, cousin of Crown Prince Lu Ten, nephew of Fire Lord Iroh.”

The servants carrying the palanquin set it to the ground, lifting the gauzy curtain. First came a pointed boot. Following was a young man, bending under the small roof as he stepped forward, a three-pointed flame pinned into his top-knot.

Katara watched as he bowed low to King Kuei, palms aligned straight against each other in the Earth Kingdom style, as the king bowed back in turn much, only more shallowly. When they straightened, the reigning monarch spoke.

“Prince Zuko,” Kuei addressed. “It is my honor and privilege as King of the Earth Kingdom that we receive you on this auspicious day, on the tenth anniversary of the Ninety Year War’s end.” Then, he faced the crowd.

“In the wake of the war’s bloodshed and destruction, Prince Zuko had proved himself as an invaluable ally to peace and prosperity, having served two years as a Fire Nation ambassador to all the nations. Now, we welcome him once again, this time not just as an ambassador,” he paused, turning to face Aang’s direction.

“-but also as the Avatar’s Firebending Master.”

The end to his speech incited a bout of polite clapping from the observing nobility and delegates, but it was notably restrained. Still, the prince stood tall, his posture radiating authority and demanding respect, as he strode over to Aang. They bowed to each other, master to student.

And then his eyes turned to hers. He had been little more than a blurry figure when he was a distance away, stepping out the palanquin and engaging in royal etiquette with King Kuei, but now he was close enough for her to see. Katara first noted the little changes from when she last saw him, so many moons ago. There was the broader shoulders, the sharper cut to his jaw.

Still, so much was the same — the strands of hair falling over his forehead, too short to be held by his traditional top-knot. The always solemn look on his face that bordered on intimidating. The golden color of his eyes.

For the third but most certainly not last time, just as formality dictated, Prince Zuko bowed to the Avatar’s chosen companion, Katara of the Southern Water Tribe. But there was no formality to speak of in the way a small, almost shy smile slipped through his impassive facade before he took Katara’s hand, one holding two years’ worth of shared secrets and memories.

And for some reason there was something so achingly familiar in his next words — like they were plucked out of a fever, all hazy dark smoke with flashes of vivid images, stars breaking through the night. For the briefest moment, the sound took shape in her mind, nearly full and nearly there until it escaped her again — vanished.

His lips met the back of her hand with a touch as light and fleeting as air when he murmured against her skin, “My lady.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end of the first chapter! Here are a few points I would like to make in my end notes:
> 
> 1\. Right now, I'm going to need you to suspend your disbelief -- yes, the Painted Lady's veil does not cover her features very well, but this is a proper Miraculous Ladybug AU which means there must be secret identities. Thus, the Blue Spirit does not know who the Painted Lady is (or does he?...)
> 
> So. Suspend your disbelief, and suspend it hard.
> 
> 2\. The name "Jie Song" was taken from my brother's Chinese name, as a little fun fact.
> 
> 3\. The update schedule for this fanfiction will not be consistent at all (that's what being a high school student taking an unhealthy amount of APs does to you). At first I wanted to finish writing the whole story before posting it to Ao3, but then I realized with the end of Zutara Week not meaning the end of the Zutara revival, I wanted to publish this first chapter to ride the Zutara hype train before it died. That being said, while I can never make promises, I can say that becoming active on the Zutara fandom and receiving so much love was and is truly one of the most touching experiences in my life. This may be the most hopeful I felt since coronavirus hit and I was stuck inside my house all day, and so I'd like to believe I have the passion and dedication necessary to eventually finish this work.
> 
> 4\. This is the last note, I promise. But I can't leave without mentioning you can find my on Tumblr at @my-bated-breath, where I publish meta-analysis, drabbles, and the occasional dose of salt.
> 
> Thank you to all the kind souls in the Zutara community that encouraged me time and time again, listening to my many Thoughts and Opinions and showering me with love even when I shamelessy promote all the time -- you know who you are :) And thank *you*, yes you, the reader, so much for reading -- please leave a comment and kudos (that includes all you guests out there, I love you too)!


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